


Backstage at the  Théâtre de L'Esprit

by sincerelymendacious



Category: Psychonauts (Video Games)
Genre: Backstage, Cheesecake, Friendship, Gen, Mentions of Mental Illness, Mentions of Therapy, Psychowhatsits secret santa 2019, Recovery from trauma, after-game events, girl talk, see how little I know about how theater works, self-criticism, tw: some body image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21954232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sincerelymendacious/pseuds/sincerelymendacious
Summary: Gloria finds herself in a strange place, with people she's never met.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	Backstage at the  Théâtre de L'Esprit

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Psychowhatsits Secret Santa gift for my buddy MarshMarsh! He provided a lot of very interesting prompts, but I chose a Gloria-focused one because I have never written these characters before! So here it is! Merry Christmas!!

The first thing that Gloria notices is herself, gazing over her shoulder, doe-eyed and bright, a soft, almost playful smile on her face. Though not actually herself, perhaps. It is a photo of herself; one of many professional headshots that had been taken and dispensed out to her adoring fans during performances and sold in music stores. At the peak of her fame Gloria remembers signing hundreds of copies of this photo, remembers scrawling her signature along the bottom or in the upper corner, and of having it shoved into her face by her more aggressive admirers. There is a signature on this one, carefully written out on the lower right, where there is no danger of it obscuring her pretty face. It is written in an elegant, looping cursive, the flourish put on the letters just enough to make it look extravagant without rendering her name illegible. Looking at it makes her knuckles ache- creating the perfect signature had been on of the many lessons taught to her at Hagatha Home.

Still, without the signature, she might not have been able to believe that this person could have ever been her. The Gloria in this photo lacks any lines near her mouth or eyes, and her skin is free of spots or blemishes; smooth as silk and as clear as spring water. Her hair falls down her back in carefully styled waves(a striking contrast to her current mess of tangled curls that still cannot be tamed by ties or pins ) and though the photograph is in black and white, Gloria can tell that there is no gray threading through the long, thick strands. There’s innocence in the gaze, but Gloria cannot tell if it’s genuine or just a demonstration of her modeling skills. Either way, she doesn’t believe that it’s an expression she can achieve naturally anymore; she has seen, done and lived through far too much. 

Gazing at this Gloria’s eyes brings attention to her eyelashes. Long, dark, and curving at the tips, they were one of the physical attributes that she was most well known for; so famous that they still sell false lashes modeled after them in stores that sell cosmetics. Her lashes have not changed much over the years, even if most everything else has, and that fact brings a smile to her face. She knows that she can never be the person in this photo ever again (and in truth has no desire to be her anyway), but it's still nice to have a small piece of her remaining. 

There are other photos hanging on the wall across from her, set around a large vanity. Some of them are stills from her Broadway performances (one of them features her with her arms stretched out, gazing upwards as she belts out a high note), but most of them were taken outside of the theatre. On the red carpet, at a dinner in a five-star restaurant, even a couple taken at the airport. A few of them feature more intimate settings, such as within her old vacation home in Monaco. She finds these photos strange because she cannot recall them being taken, and the paparazzi, as aggressive as they had been, never went so far as to break into any of her private residences. So where had those photos come from?

It’s not a matter she ponders for very long. Suddenly, she realizes that she is sitting at a round table in a room she’s never been in with two people she’s never met, with no idea of how she came to be in this place. Strangely enough, the first emotion that her surroundings elicit from her is not alarm or fear, but curiosity. 

The room is small, barely big enough for the table and group of people seated at it. It appears to be a dressing room-this she can tell from the large vanity, and from the half-body mannequins tucked safely out of the way in the corner. Elements of the room are familiar to her- the dark, reddish-brown patterned wallpaper is an exact replica of what was plastered backstage at the Cameri Theater, the vanity and its effects are reminiscent of The Victoria in San Francisco (even the bottle of wine on it- Parducci Pinot Noir, 1932- was one she enjoyed with her co-stars after the final run of Sunshine Shenanigans) and the light scent of roses takes her back to the Comédie Française. These elements shouldn’t be together in one space- how can they be, when the dressing rooms they originated from were all thousands of miles away from each other? And how could she even be in it, for wasn’t she just in her bedroom? These questions and their lack of answers should trouble Glora, but they don’t; she actually feels quite at home in this room, as odd and impossible as it is. 

The chair across from her is empty, but there are two women seated to her left and right. Both of them regard her warmly, and look as though they are waiting for her to start things up. They are strangers to her- she cannot match a name to either face, but for some reason they too are familiar to her, just like the room they are in. Inexplicably, she feels like she’s known both of them for a very long time; perhaps her entire life. 

The woman on the right is tall and slender, with carrot colored hair styled into a bob that curls upwards at the ends. There are shadows that seemed to be permanently etched under her eyes, deeper on one side than the other, which makes her eyes appear uneven. She crackles with a nervous energy, her fingers tapping rapidly on the table. Gloria thinks that she looks like she could burst out of her chair at any given moment, should there suddenly be some urgent matter that needs tending to. Still, she does not come off as impatient, and the smile curving her lips is genuine, if a bit anxious. 

The woman sitting on her left is also giving off energy, though it is more like a comforting heat than a jittery excitement. Gloria cannot help but stare at her with wide eyes, struck by how much she resembles her younger self. Especially the eyelashes- they’re a dead ringer for her own. Her skin, however, sets her on a level above Gloria. It glows, and not just in the healthy way skin is said to do, but actually gives off a golden light that draws the eye naturally to her. Her hair is covered with shawl decorated with curving, abstract patterns, the cloth illuminated in a pleasing way. Gloria is impressed- she may have once been a star, but she knows that she never shined as brightly as this woman does. 

They seem to be waiting for Gloria to say or do something, and she has the feeling that they will wait forever for her. They have been waiting for a very long time, Gloria thinks, unsure of why she does.“Hello ladies,” she greets, giving each of them a nod. “How...um…” Internally, she winces at her clumsiness. Years of isolation have dulled her social skills significantly. “I’m very pleased to be here,” she says, recovering quickly, “But I don’t know what’s going on.”

The inquiry does not seem to surprise either woman. “We’re celebrating!” the woman on the right answers, gesturing towards the middle of the table. “We got you a cake-” She cuts herself off and blinks, as though noticing for the first time that the table is empty. “Oh God,” she says, the smile falling away as her eyes widen. “Where’s the cake? Her hands fly to her head, her fingers clutching at her hair. “Don’t tell me that we forgot to pick it up!” 

The woman sounds so upset that Gloria wants to comfort her, wants to tell her that she doesn’t need a cake. The bright lady speaks up before she can do more than put a hand on the redhead's shoulder. “Becky, calm down,” she says, her voice deeper than Gloria would have expected. Hearing it makes her think of Dynama Grusche, a stage actress who she befriended before her big break and had acted as something of a mentor to her. The things she’d learned from Dy had been helpful both on stage and off it, and more kindly taught to her than any lesson she had endured at Hagatha Home. “Take a breath, okay? And get your hands out of your hair before you ruin it.” The woman (Becky?) obeys, inhaling through her nose and exhaling through her mouth, lowering her hands so that they are flat on the table. “We didn’t order the cake, remember? We didn’t know what kind to get, so we agreed that Gloria should pick it out. All we had to do was set the room up, and make sure everyone was in the right place.” 

“Oh, you’re right, Bonita,” Becky says, sighing with relief. “I can’t believe I forgot.” She shrugs sheepishly at Gloria. “Sorry for freaking out. I’m so used to everything going wrong that I...get a little agitated.” 

Gloria nods, sympathizing. Up until recently there were times when even something as minor as a light going out would cause her mood to plummet, sending her spiraling into a depression. “That’s alright. But I’m afraid that I didn’t bring any cake with me,” Gloria admits, her cheeks turning pink. “I wasn’t aware that I was supposed to buy one.” 

“Sweetheart, you weren't supposed to buy a cake,” Bonita says. “What, do you think we’d make you buy a cake for your party?” She shakes her head, her eyelashes swaying with her movements. “No, all you have to do is think of the cake you want…” She snaps her fingers. “And then it’ll appear faster than Kelly closed.” 

Gloria is skeptical. “Really? That doesn’t seem...possible.”

“But it is,” Becky says encouragingly. “You can do it.” 

“But how?” Gloria asks.

“Darling, look around you,” Bonita says, waving her hand gracefully around their surroundings. “Don’t you know what this is?”

Gloria taps her chin. “A dressing room?”

“A dream,” Bonita corrects. “This is a dream.” 

“Oh,” Gloria says, everything now making sense.

Becky’s brows come together. “Wait, weren’t we supposed to save the reveal for the final act?” 

“I’m going off script,” Bonita replies, tapping the table with her palm. “Can we get on with the show?” she asks Gloria. “Not to rush you or anything, but we’ve all been just dying to know what kind of cake you’ll pick.” 

“Ah, well, okay.” Gloria closes her eyes and then, after a moment of thought, snaps her fingers. Instantly a cake stand appears in the center of the table, alongside plates and utensils for four. On the cake stand is a perfectly-shaped cheesecake, topped with cherries, the syrup dripping down the sides of the cake. Gloria is surprised by how well it worked out- in most of her dreams, things are out of her control and tend to go horribly wrong. 

“Oh my God,” Becky says, leaning forward to get a better look. “Is that a cherry cheesecake from Lindy’s?”

Gloria nods. She’s sampled a variety of exotic and delicious foods on her travels, but this particular cake is the one she remembers most fondly, even though she’s only had it once before, over thirty years ago. After the final show of her first successful Broadway run, the cast and crew had bar-hopped across the city into the early hours of the following morning. Eventually, she and three other actresses had ended up at the original Lindy’s, where they had thrown what was left of their caution to the wind and split an entire cake between the four of them. Half-drunk and barely awake, the then eighteen year-old Gloria had never tasted anything so decadent, and had dug in gleefully, all the while thinking of how angry her instructors at Hagatha Home would have been at her for doing so. “I figured that since this is a dream, why not?” Gloria says as she takes the cake shovel in her hand. “I don’t even know if Lindy’s is still around anymore.” 

“Excellent choice,” Bonita says with approval, her expression smug. “See, I told you she would pick something good.” 

Gloria is not sure of who Bonita is speaking to, as the only other person in the room is Becky. But Bonita’s gaze isn’t directed at her, and besides that, Becky seems pretty pleased with the choice of cake. Maybe it’s a dream thing, Gloria thinks as she slides the cake shovel under a slice. “Is this one okay for you?,” she asks Becky.

“Uh, it's good,” Becky says, “but you don’t have to do that!” She reaches forward, as though to take the spatula, but then pulls back. “You’re the one who should have the first slice! Since the party is for you, and all.” 

“It’s fine,” Gloria insists, placing the slice on the plate. “I don’t mind!” 

“Oh, well, thanks,” Becky replies, staring at the cake for a second before picking up her fork. 

She must be used to handling things herself, Gloria thinks before turning to Bonita. “Would you like some?” 

“You have to ask?” Bonita answers, picking up her plate and thrusting it towards Gloria. “Can’t you see I’m wasting away over here?” There’s a note of humor in her tone, reminding Gloria again of old Dy (who she should really look up, if only to confirm that she’s still alive). “You really didn’t skimp on the cherries, huh?”

“They were the best part,” Gloria says as she considers which slice she should take for herself. Instinct tells her to go for the smallest one, and she nearly does. She changes her mind and slips the spatula under the larger slice next to it. It’s only a dream, Gloria reminds herself, putting the cake on her plate. And even if it wasn’t, I’m not in the spotlight anymore. No need to worry about my figure. A smile comes to her face at the thought of no longer having to eat like a bird.

Unfortunately, some small part of her must disagree. As she picks up her fork, a cartoonishly high-pitched voice pipes up with “You’ll get fat!”

Confused, Gloria looks to Bonita and Becky, only to find them both glaring at the empty chair. “Jasper, you old gas-bag!” Bonita snaps, jabbing her fork downward at what seems to be nothing. “You said you’d keep your trap shut if we let you come to the party!” 

“And perhaps I should have kept to my box,” the bodiless voice says, somehow managing to sound pompous even with the ridiculously squeaky voice. “Rather than waste my time here, with this sorry excuse for a cake!” 

“Oh my God,” Becky says, rolling her eyes. 

“There’s nothing wrong with this cake,” Bonita says sharply, aggressively stabbing the cake with her fork and taking a bite. “It’s delicious!” she says with her mouth full.

“Who are you talking to?” Gloria says, squinting at the empty chair. 

The presence makes an angry squawk, deeply offended by the inquiry. “How can you not recognize me?” they ask, outraged. “I’ve been with you far longer than these two harpies!” 

“Jasper, knock it off,” Becky says, balling up a napkin and throwing it at the chair. “That’s Jasper. He’s...ugh, a critic.” Her nose wrinkles like she’s smelled something foul. 

“Think of him as the peanut gallery,” Bonita adds.

“How dare you,” Jasper growls with all the aggression of a tiny kitten. “You know that I despise peanuts!” 

“I don’t see anybody,” Gloria says, “where is he?”

“He’s right in that chair,” Becky replies, thumbing towards it. “You probably can’t see him because he’s, well…”

“Miniscule,” Bonita finishes. “The size of a softball, and about as round, too.” 

“She’d be able to see me if you’d given me something to sit on,” Jasper grumbles. “As per my request.” 

“Sit on what?” Becky says, exasperated in a way that makes Gloria thinks that it's not the first time they’ve had this argument. “The only thing we could use to boost you up would be the scripts, and I cannot have your behind wrinkling those!”

“You’re telling me that a theater, even one as ramshackle as this one, does not have a single prop that I could sit on?” Jasper says dubiously. 

“And have you get crumbs all over?” Bonita fires back. “I’ve seen the way you make a huge mess up in the theater box, and the last thing I want is to perform with something you’ve smeared cheesecake all over.”

“Or worse,” Becky says with a shudder, “his spit.”

This dream just gets stranger and stranger, Gloria thinks as Becky, Bonita and Jasper bicker about the theater’s overall hygiene. She stands, curious to learn what her most acerbic guest looks like. In order to see him, she has to get on her tip-toes, but when she does, she’s shocked. Bonita’s description was entirely accurate, for Jasper is the most spherical person she has ever laid eyes on. His chest is so wide that his arms cannot cross themselves over it, and those stubby legs of his do not look like they can hold his weight, which makes Gloria wonder how he had gotten into his chair in the first place. His hair is the same color as Becky’s, styled in a kind of updo, curling upwards in a way that makes Gloria think of devil horns. His eyebrows are curled in a similar manner, and they bob whenever he swivels his head to snap at whoever he’s arguing with. The most off-putting thing about him, however, is his mouth. It’s far too wide, splitting his face practically from ear to ear, full of far too many jagged, yellow teeth. If I saw this fellow in the audience during a performance, I would certainly freeze up!

Jasper cuts himself off in the middle of a point regarding bed bugs in the seats once he notices Gloria staring. He tilts his head upward- how, Gloria cannot say, since he doesn’t seem to have a neck- to gaze directly at her face. His eyes assess her from head to toe, reminding her of the way she herself used to scrutinize her appearance before going out, when she used to regularly do so. He hums, and says, “You’re looking better.” 

The way he speaks sounds more like a grudging concession than a compliment. Still, Gloria is surprised, for she expected him to sling an insult her way. “Thank you,” she says, smiling. “I feel better. More so than I have in years.” 

“Hm. That really isn’t saying much,” Jasper replies, waving a chubby hand at her. “You’re hair is still horrific, though I suppose we should all be grateful that the birds aren’t trying to use it as nesting material anymore. And oh, you’ve gained weight. It really shows in your arms.” 

At this, Becky and Bonita both immediately come to her defense, angrily chastising Jasper for his rudeness. But Gloria is not offended, is on the verge of laughter, actually. Perhaps if these barbs had been stuck into her years ago, by anybody else, they would have hurt. But not now, not after all she’s lived through, and certainly not when she’s hearing it from somebody who sounds like they’ve spent all day sucking helium out of a balloon. As the guests around her descend back into their argument, Gloria closes her eyes and pictures the richest desert she’s ever encountered. An image of a triple-layer dark chocolate cake that she once saw in a hotel in Brussels (but did not dare order, lest her thighs suffer the consequences) comes to her mind, and once she snaps her fingers, it's there on Jasper’s plate. “Would you prefer this, instead of the cheesecake?” she asks, her simple question quelling the argument. 

Jasper blinks, staring up at the chocolate cake like he can’t believe that it’s actually there. Then he reaches his arms up, his fingers grasping at the air. “Give it here!” he demands, stretching as far up towards the table as he possibly can. “Put it down here, you know I can’t reach up that high!” 

“Jeez, Jasper,” Becky says as Bonita takes the plate and sets it on the chair. “Haven’t you ever heard of the word ‘please?’ “

“I guess ‘thank you’ isn’t in his script, either,” Bonita remarks dryly.

Jasper shoots her a glare, waddling closer to the cake (which is almost as big as he is). Then he lets out a dramatic huff and turns his attention to Gloria. “I suppose your taste isn’t completely awful after all.” 

“Ah, you’re welcome,” Gloria replies, unsure if that was intended as a compliment, but choosing to take it as one. She almost asks if he wants a fork, but then he takes a huge piece off the cake with his hands and shoves it into his mouth. “I...hope you enjoy that,” she says instead as she sits down, unable to hide her amusement. 

Becky gives her a grateful smile. “Thanks Gloria. That should keep him happy for a while.” 

“A very short while,” Bonita says. “But yeah, thanks for shutting him up. We didn’t really want to bring him, but unfortunately he does have a right to be here.” 

“That’s quite alright,” Gloria says, piercing a cherry with her fork. “I really appreciate you all setting this party up for me. Even if I’m not sure what the occasion is.”

The confession elicits a gasp of surprise from Becky, whose fork drops onto the plate with a clatter. “What? You don’t know?”

Gloria thinks for a moment, then shakes her head. “I know that it isn’t my birthday.”

“She doesn’t remember,” Jasper says, his words garbled by the cake in his mouth. “I knew she wouldn’t. Her memory’s really gone downhill.” 

“Shut up, Jasper,” Bonita says without even glancing his way. She puts her hand over Gloria’s, her skin radiating a comforting warmth. “Sweetie, it’s been one year since you left that God-awful asylum.” 

“Oh! Has it really been that long?” Things have been so busy for her- between dealing with various legal quagmires, getting her finances sorted out, securing housing for herself and her fellow inmates, and handling the resulting fallout of her sudden return to society, she hasn’t really noticed the weeks and months flying by. 

Becky nods. “Yep. One whole year. Can you believe it?” 

Hardly. But it must be true, otherwise why else would she be having this dream? “It still feels like only a month has passed.” 

“That’s probably because you’re actually doing things, instead of performing in front of a bunch of pots in the world’s most miserable garden,” Bonita theorizes. “You know what they say: time slogs by when you’re stagnating.”

Gloria supposes that she cannot argue with that statement. “One year out of Thorney Towers is certainly worth celebrating,” she says, bringing a forkful of cheesecake to her mouth. It is excellent- even in a dream the cake’s sweet taste and smooth texture contrasts pleasingly with the tartness of the cherries, which burst in her mouth when she bites down on them. I should contact the others when I wake up, she thinks as she chews. Maybe we could all go out for dinner. “So if things have been better for me,” Gloria says after swallowing, “I’m assuming that they’ve improved for all of you as well.”

“Oh, the mood in this theater has improved drastically!” Bonita says, putting extra emphasis on the word ‘drastically’. “And so has the quality of the plays.” 

“We’re no longer scurrying around like headless chickens,” Becky agrees, “switching from one set to another, getting the props mixed up. And the lighting! God, it’s so consistent! We’re not constantly fixing it like we were before.” Becky falls silent for a second, biting her lip, looking unsure of whether or not she should continue. “It’s...I’m not saying it’s perfect all the time,” she admits tentatively, nervously poking her cake with her fork. “Sometimes the actors forget their lines, or they just tire out quickly. Sometimes we end up tripping all over the place. And sometimes I feel like I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached to my neck. But I don’t feel so bad about it anymore. If things go wrong on stage, we all just take a break until we feel ready to try again.” She gives Gloria a small, weary smile, one that makes her look like she’s just had a huge burden taken off of her shoulders. “We don’t need to be perfect anymore.”

“It’s the same for me,” Bonia says. “I’m on stage now more than I have in years, but the pressure is gone. I feel like I’m getting brighter everyday.” She raises an arm, turning her wrists delicately. “Can you see it? My skin used to be so dull, but now my glow is coming back.”

“That’s wonderful!” Gloria exclaims, happy for the both of them. She’s not sure if she’s met them before having this dream, but it’s clear that they are a part of her, and their well-being is directly connected to her own. Which means that they were suffering when I was suffering. “I’m just...so sorry that everything was so bad for so long.”

Becky and Bonita are both quick to protest this apology. “That’s not what we meant!” Becky says, frantically waving her hands. “We’re not blaming you!” 

“You didn’t have any control over what went on in there,” Bonita points out, thumbing over at the door that presumably leads out to the rest of the theater. “You might have seen some of our abominable shows while dreaming, but it wasn’t your bad acting dragging it down.”

“And it wasn’t your poor management skills driving the whole production into a ditch,” Becky adds.

“But it wasn’t like either of you had much to work with,” Gloria argues, guilt over her role in the theater’s deterioration twisting within her chest. “It’s difficult to give a good performance when you’re stuck with a bad script and the stage is falling apart.”

“It’s not impossible, though,” Bonita says, an impish smile spreading across her face. “Remember Garden Full of Roses?”

“Oh goodness!” Gloria says, her hand coming to her mouth as she recalls that near-disaster. So many things had gone wrong on the Opening Night of that play- the curtains kept getting stuck on rails, set pieces seemed to collapse seemingly at random, and both the original lead actor and the understudy caught food poisoning at two different restaurants. A last-minute replacement had been found and he did his best, but he could only do so much with so little time to prepare. And yet, reviews of the show had been positive, due to Gloria and her castmates giving their all in spite of all of the show’s setbacks. “So much improv,” Gloria sighs, fondly remembering how proud of herself she’d been after the show. 

Bonita’s grin widens. “That was pretty nerve-wracking, wasn’t it? But I don’t think I ever shone brighter.” She looks away, wiping at her eyes for a moment, before turning her attention back to Gloria. “Let’s not argue over whose the worst, alright? We were all terrible, but now we’re not.” It’s a simple way to put it, but it makes Gloria feel a lot better because it’s true- she was in a bad place, the worst place of her life, perhaps. But she’s not there anymore and no matter what the future might bring, she won’t be going back there again. “Now that you’re somewhat settled,” Bonita says, changing the subject, “what have you been doing with yourself?”  
“ I want to know too,” Becky says. “I know you’re not just sitting around at home doing nothing. You’ve had enough of that, right?”

“Well, to be honest,” Gloria says, “I’m still having some legal and financial problems. I have quite a bit of money owed to me in royalties, and the people who owe me that money are being very difficult.”

“Ugh,” Becky wrinkles her nose. 

“They sound worse than your mother’s old manager,” Bonita says, scowling.

“I don’t know if I would go that far.” Eugh, even the mere mention of Lormen Kricke is enough to make Gloria cringe. “They aren’t doing anything illegal, at least not to my knowledge. They’re just dragging this whole thing out unnecessarily.” Gloria shrugs her shoulders. “My lawyer says that they’re doing it on purpose. They’re hoping that I’ll get tired of dealing with it and settle for less than I would get if I took them to court. And to be honest, it’s sort of working. I find it all so exhausting.” 

“But you’re not going to settle, are you?” Becky asks.

Bonita answers for her. “Absolutely not! You can’t!” Her eyes lock onto Gloria’s, their hue closer to molten gold than the brown it was previously. 

Gloria cuts her gaze away before she speaks. “Oh, I don’t know. The money’s not that important to me. As long as I have enough to live on, I’ll be content.” Even as she gives the answer, though, hot emotion burns within her stomach, her grip on her fork tightening. 

The same fire must burn within Bonita as well. “It’s not about the money,” she says. There’s anger in her tone, but Gloria gets the sense that it’s not being directed at her. “Those weasels,” she spits the words out as though they taste foul- “took advantage of your disappearance! They were profiting off of your hard work when you couldn’t do anything to stop them! And now that you’ve come back to get what’s yours, they’re complicating things because they don’t want to lose their meal tickets!” Bonita bangs her fist on the table, heat radiating off of her now more intensely glowing body. “Haven’t you had enough of being used? I say you take them to court and make them squirm.”

Bonita’s outrage makes for one hell of a performance, and Gloria is certainly moved by it. These days, anger is not something Gloria has really allowed herself to feel, for fear that it would cause her to relapse back into her former instability. During the latter half of her acting career, she’d garnered a reputation for having a hair-trigger temper, and many of her former relationships had collapsed due to displays of rage that bordered on violent. But the anger that she’s feeling now, inspired by Bonita’s, is justified, and directed towards people who have been actively harming her for a good while. “You’re right,” Gloria says, her resolve to keep fighting this battle boosted significantly. “I shouldn’t just settle because it’s easier. I need to get all of the money that I earned, even if takes years to do so.”

“Oh God,” Becky says, touching her fingertips to her forehead. “Do you really think it’ll take years? The longer running shows are always the most complicated…” She sighs, slumping her shoulders. “But it has to be done, doesn’t it? God, I hope we can handle it.”

“We can. I know we can.” Bonita says. She’s calmed down a little, the heat having receded, but she’s still illuminating the whole room with her determination. Gloria feels like she’s absorbing it by just being near her, and it makes her want to get up and do something to improve her situation. When I wake up , I’ll give my lawyer a call and deal with some of those things I’ve been avoiding. “Anyway,” Bonita says, interrupting Gloria’s thoughts, “that’s enough time wasted talking about greedy jerks. What else have you been doing?”

Part of Gloria wants to mention that she’s started treatment for the mental illness that got her locked up in Thorney Towers to begin with (Dr. Sackis called it ‘Bipolar Disorder’). She swallows the words back just as they reach the tip of her tongue, deciding that bringing such a thing up might depress the party. “I’ve started my garden up again,” she says instead, picturing the little plot in her backyard, full of azaleas, begonias, peonies, and roses, all of them flourishing under her care. “They’re all so lovely. And it's so nice to be able to use proper equipment instead of those old, rusty spades.” She glances down at her left hand, the faded slash of a scar gifted to her by a sharp gardening tool still present on her dream self. “I wish that you could all see them.” 

“We can!” Bonita says happily. “They look gorgeous, doll! Way better than those weeds that you used to water.” 

“We’ve been trying to recreate them, actually,” Becky says. “They’re great for brightening up a scene, and they look good on costumes as well. And the scent really seems to soothe the actors when they get nervous.” 

“I’m glad to hear that!” Gloria says, though she’s not really sure how either of these women can see her flowers if they live in this strange, otherworldly theater. Perhaps it does not matter. “If you have any suggestions on what I should plant, please just let me know. The gardening really does help me quite a bit. My-someone told me that a hobby really helps keep one’s mind away from negative spaces.” She almost slipped and mentioned her therapist. Though really, it’s probably not a secret- if Becky and Bonita can see her flowers, then they can probably see her talking to Dr. Sackis or taking her medication. “I’m also trying to go out more,” she continues, covering her near-mistake by changing the subject. “It’s...I have to admit that talking to other people is much harder than it used to be.” Her days of walking into a room and immediately becoming the life of the party are sadly long gone. Now just keeping up a conversation feels as difficult as debating philosophy with Socrates. The most difficult part is just motivating herself to leave her home- she’s become so accustomed to her own company that she can easily go days talking to nobody but herself, which seems like a surefire way to fall back into old habits. “I’m still in contact with the others from the asylum, and we try to talk to each other at least once a week.” The three men have become her closest friends and her conversations with them always make her feel so much better about her life. 

“Oh! How are the boys doing?” Bonita asks, her interest piqued.

Gloria can’t help but smile- referring to Edgar, Fred and Boyd as ‘the boys’ is definitely something Dy would have done- and answers “They’re all doing really well, especially considering that they had even less to fall back on than I did.” All of them had been given a substantial sum of money in exchange for not contradicting the story the Psychonauts had given the press regarding their release from the long defunct Thorny Towers. But that money could only go so far when one had to start their whole life over from scratch. For a time, they’d been forced to live in hotels until they could find affordable living arrangements, and much like herself, they were also struggling with multiple legal and financial matters. Thankfully, they’d all managed to find ways to acquire something resembling a normal life, despite the many roadblocks. “Edgar’s been working part time in a tattoo parlor, in addition to getting back into painting seriously. Boyd has taken up bird watching and has made some very nice friends, and Fred has gotten his family home back and is working on restoring it.” She’s so proud of them, but a small part of her (smaller than Jasper) is a bit jealous that they seem to be so far ahead of her in terms of getting their lives back. It’s not a competition, she reminds herself, We’re not all vying for a lead role in a show. We’re just trying to move on as best we can.

“I wish they could come to this theater,” Becky says, sighing almost dreamily. “Especially that Fred. Can you imagine how much easier adjusting the lights would be if we had someone as tall as him on the crew?”

“How about that Edgar?” Bonita says, conspiratorially lowering her voice and raising an eyebrow. “That guy can paint my scenery any day.”

Heat rushes to Gloria’s cheeks. “Bonita!” 

Becky is more surprised than scandalized. “Really? I thought you would have prefered Boyd. Don’t you always say that you love a man in uniform?” 

“I also say that I prefer them out of it even more.”

Gloria bursts into laughter. “Oh my God, you’re terrible,” she says, wiping a tear from her eye. “As for the theater,” she says once she’s sobered a bit, “we all say that one of these days we’re going to see a show in Seattle. But we keep pushing it back.” Gloria frowns. “It’s mostly my fault. I…” She pauses to take a breath, unsure of how Becky and Bonita will take what she’s about to confess to next. “I haven’t been in a theater since...you know. And going back into one seems terrifying to me right now. Even just the thought of it makes me want to hide.” 

It’s such a strange thing for Gloria to say out loud. The theater had been her whole life- it formed the basis for her education, brought her fame, fortune, and heartbreak in equal measures, and is perhaps the reason that she came into existence. Even when she was trapped in Thorny Towers, unable to access a real stage, performing for her audience of broken pots was what allowed her to hold onto the remaining threads of her sanity. Ironic then, that now that she has the freedom to go where she pleases, the theater is the last place that she wants to be. 

Bonita and Becky do not look happy to hear this- Becky looks particularly stricken by the news- but they are not without sympathy. “That’s uh, understandable,” Becky says, gnawing at her bottom lip, “considering all of the really, really bad things that happened to you there. But you’re not...you’re not planning on closing our theater down, are you?”

The prospect of such a thing seems to frighten Becky, and Bonita doesn’t look too pleased by the idea either, if the downward turn of her lips are any indication. “Oh no!” Gloria says, “ I didn’t mean anything like that. I wasn’t aware that I could do that!” 

“You can,” Bonita says, her tone solemn. “You’re the only one who can shut us down, no matter what a certain butterball says.”

“But what would happen to you?” Gloria asks them both. 

Becky shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. I guess I would manage things here some other way, but I have no idea how. The theater is all that I’ve ever known, and it's all that I’ve ever worked with. 

“It’s the same for me,” Bonita says, her eyes downcast. “My whole life is the stage. Even when I’m not on it, I’m thinking about my next performance.” She raises her gaze. “But it's your decision. I’ll find some other way to to shine if the theater gets shut-down.” 

It might be Gloria’s eyes playing tricks on her, but she thinks that Bonita’s eyes, previously alight with a golden sheen, have dimmed. “Don’t worry,” she says gently. “I’m not going to shut the theater down.” That, she suspects, would be just as bad for her as it would be for Becky, Bonita, and everyone else who works there. “I only meant that I still need more time to heal, that’s all. I can’t imagine giving up theater for the rest of my life!” 

Both women gives out sighs of relief. “That’s great news,” Becky says, the tension leaving her shoulders, “because I am way too old for a career change.” 

“And I just made my triumphant return to the stage,” Bonita adds. “Think of how disappointed my fans would be if I immediately went back into retirement!” 

Gloria pales. “Um, I’m not planning on getting back into acting myself. That’s over for me.” This is the one thing regarding her future that Gloria is certain of. She’s not going to be her mother, trying desperately to reclaim the fame and admiration she’d had in her youth, for Gloria knows firsthand that it will only lead to pain. 

The resolution thankfully does not upset Bonita. “I never said that you had to go back into acting. If the sun has set on that part of your life, then its set. But my place is, and will always be on stage, front and center, brightening up the darkest corners of this theater. That’s my role.” 

Gloria smiles- she thinks she’s beginning to understand who Becky and Bonita are, and she’s glad that they’ve both stuck with her, even through all of the rough patches. “Thank you,” she says, her voice tight with emotion. “I’m so grateful to you for inspiring me. And to you,” she turns to Becky, “for keeping it all going. I never even knew that I had such a great support system.” 

“Oh jeez,” Becky says, wiping at her eyes.

Bonita sniffs loudly. “Oh God, don’t get me started with the waterworks,” she says, producing a handkerchief from out of nowhere and dabbing at her eyes. “I am not a pretty crier.” 

“Neither am I,” Gloria says. She inhales through her nose, then exhales through her mouth, regaining her composure. “So I am not ever going to be headlining a show ever again, and I’m okay with that. I’ll be happy if I can be a part of the audience. But…” 

She trails off. The pause goes on for too long. “But?” Bonita prompts, curious.

“I’ve...been thinking about writing my own play.” She taps her fingers on the table nervously. It’s the first time she’s spoken about it to anyone, and even though she’s technically only talking to herself, she begins to feel strangely embarrassed, anticipating either laughter or scorn.

Becky claps her hands in delight. “That’s a great idea! I call dibs on the first showing!” 

“Well, of course we’re going to get the script first,” Bonita says, rolling her eyes fondly. Her skin is glowing again, though not as brightly as her hair. A lock the color of white-gold escapes the shawl, curling around Bonita’s fingers as she tucks it back into place. “So, what’s it going to be about? Don’t keep us in suspense!” 

Bonita’s interest and Becky’s enthusiasm encourages Gloria. “I was thinking of writing a play based on my time at Thorney Towers,” she says. “I get asked quite frequently if I’m planning on writing a tell-all book like my mother did. I don’t really want to go that far, but I think a musical would satisfy everybody’s curiosity while giving me room to keep certain things private.” More importantly, it would give her the opportunity to truly examine what happened to her during those long years of isolation and hopefully make better sense of it, as well as herself and where she wants to go from here. 

“Oh, that is perfect!” Becky explains. The undertone of weariness is gone from her voice, replaced by passion for a new, exciting project. “We already have a few scripts about your life, but eh.” She flattens her palm out and tips it from side to side, conveying the mediocrity of the scripts in a single gesture. “They’re either sickeningly sweet or unbearably depressing. No complexity whatsoever.”

Bonita agrees with the assessment. “Don’t get me wrong, I love a good, schlocky melodrama as much as the next person. But my God, you can only listen to the wailing in The Horror of Hagatha Hall so many times before it just becomes comical.” She rests her elbows on the table and then puts her head in her hands. “So, what have you got so far?” 

“Nothing written down yet,” Gloria admits. “Most of it has just been in my head. It’s something I’ve been thinking about doing but haven’t really committed to yet. But you know what? I don’t want to just think about it anymore. I’ll start today, when I wake up.” 

The response to this declaration comes in the form of a loud squeak. Confused, Gloria at first thinks that someone at their table has just squeezed a dog toy with a rather scornful cast to it’s squeal. She notices that Becky and Bonita are again staring down at the chair across from hers with narrowed eyes, and realizes that the fourth member of their party has just voiced his disdain in a single wordless peep. I forgot he was there. Sighing internally, she rises just as he begins his tirade. “The idea of you being able to write an honest play about your life is as laughable as the time Miss Sunshine here tried attempted to hit that high C in the penultimate song of Sunshine Shenanigans.”

Bonita sucks in a breath, her hand flying to her throat. “That’s low, even for you, Jasper!” she says, her bottom lip trembling with anger. “You know that I had a cold that day!” 

Jasper’s comment does not offend Gloria, as it is very difficult to take any criticism given by somebody covered nearly head to toe in chocolate seriously. His cake is gone, the only evidence of its existence some crumbs left on the plate and the many globs of frosting decorating his person. She suspects that quieting the critic would be a very simple task; a mere snap of her fingers would give him another proportionately gigantic slice with which to occupy himself with. But she is admittedly curious to hear the reasoning behind his thoughts. Is he just being mean for the sake of it, or do his objections have a basis? “Why do you say that, Jasper?” she inquires as she takes a napkin and tosses it over to him. It flutters down to his seat and lands next to his plate, where it is subsequently ignored. 

Jasper smirks, jabbing a chocolatey finger up at her accusingly. “You’ve never written anything more complicated than a tepid response to your fanmail in your life. How do you expect to write an entire play?”

Gloria is pretty sure that she’s written more than just replies to her fans (none of which were tepid!) but she decides not to argue with him on that point. “I may not have written a play before,” she says, “but I’ve read so many of them.” Dramatic literature had been a huge part of the curriculum at Hagatha Home- Gloria can vividly recall pouring over Greek tragedies, Shakespearean comedies, and modern day musicals. Later on, she would memorize a variety of scripts, some good, some bad. “I know what works and what doesn’t.” She looks at Jasper directly in his eyes, confronting the malice that she’s always directed towards herself without flinching. “Is that all that you have to say?”

To Becky and Bonita’s audible dismay, it is not. “Even if you did manage to rouse yourself from your ennui and malaise long enough to scribble out a crude play,” he says, relishing every cutting word coming out of his mouth as though it were cake going into it, “who do you think would want to watch it?” 

At this, Bonita laughs. “You’re kidding, right blubber head? You know that Gloria still gets tons of fan-mail, and the paparazzi can still make bank on photos of her. The theater that shows this play first is going to be packed with people!” 

“And then they’ll be sorely disappointed once they realize that she did not have any wild affairs with her doctors or engage in any of her famous shouting matches while locked in a padded room.” Spittle flies from Jasper’s mouth as he speaks. “No, the audience that comes to this show will be a very bored, very let-down one, forced to endure what will likely amount to two hours of some hysterical waif wallowing pathetically in her own self-pity.” 

The words are like a well-aimed arrow, piercing through the missing spot in her armour and hitting her right in the heart. “I-” she swallows, unsure of how to counter the point. Maybe she can’t- she’s thought similar things to herself, and it's what has stopped her from even attempting to begin. “You might be right. Maybe nobody will like the play that I write. It might very well end up being infamously bad. But it isn’t about the audience this time. It’s about myself.” The realization dawns on her in that moment, releasing her from all of the doubts that had previously been holding her back. “This is something that I want to do. At the very least, I shouldn’t give up before I’ve even begun.”

Silence falls upon the table, lingering for so long that Gloria thinks that Jasper has actually conceded the argument in her favor. Then he pipes up, his voice even weaker and more high-pitched than it had been a moment before. “You can’t do it. Writing a play like this would require you to actually confront your demons. You can’t even talk about how you wound up in that nuthouse with your therapist.”

He has brought up yet another point that Gloria cannot contest. Jasper, for all of his faults, is no liar, even if his honesty is of a brutal sort. Denying the truthfulness of this statement would probably lead to never-ending argument, one unlikely to end with her victory. “I suppose that I will just have to try to open myself up more,” she says. It’s a scary thought. She’s not sure how Dr. Sackis, as kind as he has been to her, will react to some of the awful and embarrassing things she did while her illness was its most destructive. “It won’t be easy-”

“An understatement of grandiose proportions,” Jasper interrupts, sneering. 

“-but I have to do it,” Gloria continues, “if I want to heal.” 

“You can do it,” Becky says, smiling warmly.

“No she can’t!” Jasper shrieks like a petulant child.

“Yes, she can,” Bonita says firmly. “She’s survived Hagatha Home, her mother’s suicide, and Thorney Towers. She can talk to a doctor.” She glares down at Jasper, looking very much done with the little man’s callousness. “You’ve made your point now, Jasper. I think it's time for you to shut up.” She snaps her fingers and a second slice of cake appears on his plate. 

It’s not as big or as well made as the one Gloria had given him, a fact that Jasper does not hesitate to point out. It does not stop him from digging right into it, however, and within seconds it has his full attention. “Thank you, Bonita,” Gloria says as she sits back in her chair. “Although, to his credit, he was right about everything.” 

“Yeah, well, you can only take so much criticism before it wears you down, regardless of whether its true or not,” Bonita says.

Becky clears her throat. “About you talking to your therapist about the stuff you don’t want to talk to him about,” she says, “maybe you could start by telling him about the play you want to write.” 

It’s a good suggestion- perhaps Dr. Sackis would be able to better guide their sessions if he knew that Gloria had a more concrete goal in mind than just recovering from her trauma and receiving treatment for her mental illness. “ I think he would be very pleased to hear that I was processing my experiences through writing. He did suggest that I begin a journal.” A rejuvenating energy shoots through Gloria. “Oh, I’m so excited!” she exclaims, clasping her hands together. “It’s been so long since I’ve felt this way; probably not since my last major performance. I just...want to wake and get started on...everything!” 

“Hey, don’t wake up now!” Becky protests. Setting something like this up isn’t something we can do everyday!” 

“Yeah, you can’t leave before the party’s over We still have a lot to catch up on!” Bonita says, gesturing at Gloria’s half-eaten slice with her fork. “At least stay long enough to finish your cake!” 

To Gloria, it sounds like a plan.


End file.
